


Unspoken

by Tamony (orphan_account)



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-03-23
Updated: 2003-03-23
Packaged: 2018-08-27 17:50:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8410861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Tamony
Summary: Sometimes silence speaks louder than words. Takes place a few months into Raven's stay in WWE.





	

New York in January is bleak. The buildings seem monochrome, the streets black and slick, and the sideways gray. The trees' leafless branches look like claws scratching the flat, steely sky, and the snow is no more than filthy slush, splashing beneath car wheels and tired feet. Crowds blur into faceless masses as the wind howls and bites and freezes the breath in my lungs.

Sliding into the taxi is a relief, despite the stifling air inside. It's claustrophobic; the smell of stale sweat manages to linger through the constant opening and closing of the doors. My throat is dry when I try to speak, so I hand over the card with your address. The driver doesn't even blink.

It's only the middle of the afternoon, but the clouds block the sun and the day seems timeless, frozen, clocks unmoving. When I close my eyes, my own breathing, ticking away the seconds, is my only marker of time.

I don't think I've slept, but the taxi pulls up to the curb far sooner than I expect. I'm left standing on your walkway, arms crossed and suitcase beside me. The wind isn't as strong here, nor does it carry the same scent; the air is almost refreshing, crisp instead of frigid, but my gloves are packed and it's still too cold.

You've long since stopped answering the door when I knock, but you're leaning against the entry to the hall when I step inside. You mean to look casual. You never do.

The latch clicks closed, and I can't hear the wind anymore. My boots thump too loudly when I toss them aside. I watch my own fingers undo the buttons of my coat as if I honestly need to see what I'm doing. I don't know why I concentrate on everything but you at first. Maybe it's because you're always the one to reach out first, but maybe it's because I find it hard to admit that I miss you--even to myself--until I'm here, when it becomes difficult to deny.

You're watching; I don't have to look up to confirm it. There's nothing more I can pretend to focus on, and your arms are around me not ten seconds after I raise my head. We haven't even said hello. Giving in, I let my chin rest on your shoulder, a little conscious of how tightly I hold you. You're tough, but a broken back isn't something that just heals. There'll always be residual pain.

"You're not going to break me."

I can hear the smile in your voice. I scowl, but I'm only irritated at myself. When you step back, your eyes are thoughtful with a hint of worry you fail to hide. Your fingers graze my jaw. I'm rarely able to manage that sort of casual touch; it doesn't come naturally to me the way it does to you.

"You're pale," you say, brow furrowing as your thumb brushes my cheek. "Are you feeling okay?"

My pathetic attempt at a smile makes you grin. "Just tired," I explain. I've spent years on the road, yet travelling tends to leave me looking like I haven't slept in days, at least for an hour or so after the trip's over. You know that, but there are still a few things that you seem to want to hear me tell you, even if you could easily come to the same conclusion on your own. It's one of your quirks.

No words pass between us as I throw my suitcase on the bed in the guest room; it's the only use the room will get. You've been with me often enough and long enough that you've figured out that I'm a creature of habit. It's nice to know that there's someone who cares enough to do more than scratch the surface, even if I sometimes get an unsettling feeling that you know me as well as I know myself.

Later, we sprawl on the sofa. I'm only tired, not sleepy, but my eyes are closed. The radio is on, playing music I can't identify. Still, there's a silence that feels almost physical, curling out from the corners of the room and twining around us; the drone of the radio doesn't break it, but floats on top of it like oil on water.

Your hand is on my hip, stroking the leather. It's more than just the feel of it that you like; it's the way it clings and the way body heat warms it. It even smells warm, somehow. When I roll onto my back, your fingers slide under my shirt and drift across my stomach. It's a request.

We'll find our way to your bedroom next time--in a few hours, or maybe tomorrow morning--but right now all I want is your mouth on me and mine on you. You're not quite comfortable, I can tell by the sigh as you shift against the sofa, but I don't acknowledge that I heard you. You wouldn't want me to, not yet.

The first time is always like this. No waiting. The weeks between visits are wait enough. It's as quick and single-minded as it used to be years ago: lust and not love. All that differs is how long I stay when it's over.

Even sweaty and sated, I can't stop thinking enough to just enjoy the moment. At times like this, I almost envy those who can allow themselves to do nothing but feel, without having constant analysis tugging at the corners of the mind. I almost envy you. You're more comfortable with the situation than I; if you weren't, I'd see it in your eyes. It's an extension of the way you take life as it comes, while I'm more likely to question everything when it doesn't happen exactly how I plan.

There were always others, even from the first time you left my room at dawn instead of midnight. There was you and I, but there was also you and Mike, or you and Jim, or me with any random friend or rat. It was a touch of stability without co-dependence. It didn't matter where I woke up or who was beside you at night--we'd always come back to each other.

Your breathing is soft and regular, and I wonder if you've fallen asleep. I raise my head; your eyes are already open. You take your hand out of my hair and stretch, prompting me to sit up and look for my pants.

The radio's still on, and the silence is the same. The first night of any visit always seems to pass in so little action and so much thought; perhaps the latter is just inside my own mind. Every time I'm here, it's obvious that what we are to each other is different than what it used to be. I'm unable to figure out what motivated the change.

We never spoke about it; we didn't have the need. For all the hours we spent talking, there was more meaning in the silences and what we didn't say--what was somehow understood by both of us without the desire to put it into words.

I was too preoccupied with life, work, and addiction to notice when I began waking up with you more often than anyone else. Likewise, I didn't notice when our usual travel partners began to assume that you and I would want to room together more often than not. Without a spoken declaration, we went from "you and I" to "us". The concept still hadn't quite settled into my mind then, but it was there, as a feeling rather than a label.

The radio station has faded from music to an irritating news anchor, so I flip through the stations in search of something tolerable. When I sigh in frustration, a video case appears in front of me. It's a film I don't mind seeing again; I go to far too many theatres for anyone, even you, to keep track of what I've watched.

It takes only a few minutes for us to settle back onto the sofa. The lamp is dimmed and the sun has set; the light from the television is harsh and almost too bright. Before the previews are even over your head has fallen onto my shoulder, and our fingers are linked together and resting in your lap. I've more than gotten used to the casual affection. I've grown to like and even expect it from you.

I didn't make promises when I left Philadelphia. I hadn't been gone a week before I called just to see how you were doing, and before another week had passed I'd come back to "tie up loose ends". You knew it was an excuse. You never called me on it; I wouldn't have admitted it at the time. Making time to visit between house shows and tapings was--and still is--complicated, regardless of whether we spent our time in Jersey or New York.

Working around travel schedules and days off isn't all that's complex. Nothing's simple, from what I think and feel to the way I act and react around you. It's not easy to admit that I've come to depend on something--someone--other than myself and my own choices.

I'm still paying enough attention to the movie that I could explain what just happened on-screen if asked, but it's become almost peripheral. We've both shifted a little, but you're still leaning heavily against my side, more tired than you're willing to let on. I notice the subtleties in your eyes and body language, and I understand what you mean even if it's not quite what you say. It's still somewhat hard to believe that, despite this careful observation, I didn't acknowledge the gradual changes in our relationship.

You weren't even with me when I finally started to realise what had been happening. I still don't know what woke me so early the morning after a taping. Narrow rays of morning sunlight filtered through the cracks in the window blinds, and the only sound was soft breathing behind me. I was content to lie in warm arms until restlessness set in. I rolled onto my back, trying to move only as much as was necessary; long hair fell across my shoulder as the body beside me shifted. I blinked. It wasn't you.

It took long moments of blank staring before I recalled where I'd gone the night before and why I wasn't in my own bed. Even once the initial shock had faded, I remained uncomfortable. I decided I had to leave. Chris didn't wake when I slid out of his arms--he'd always been a heavy sleeper. I gathered my clothes as quickly as I could find them and slipped out the door. I refused to identify the odd feeling that crept over me; I wasn't used to it, and it wasn't welcome.

Thankful for the time difference between the west coast and New York, I picked up the phone. I regretted the impulsive action when I heard the sleepiness in your voice, but you were quick to tell me that you'd slept longer than planned anyhow. I wouldn't let myself ask you if there was anyone with you; that unsettling feeling, still lingering in my mind, threatened to grow stronger. I pushed it away, and chose to assume that you hadn't been alone all night while I was with Chris. The next time he invited me to his room, I turned him down.

I never told you what prompted me to call at such an odd hour. You never asked.

I'm losing my ability to concentrate on the screen. Instead, I find myself glancing down the hall to the guest room. I wonder if I'll ever give in and stop putting my suitcase on the bed. I wonder if I'll ever say out loud what my mind already knows; I wonder if I even want to speak about something we've never needed to speak about before.

You absent-mindedly squeeze my fingers, and I pull my hand away. When you start to raise your head, I wrap my arm securely around your shoulders to prevent you from moving. I don't look over, but I can tell you're watching me. After a moment, you settle back down against my side with a sigh.

More than anything else, I wonder if I'll ever learn to stop analysing something that's based on feeling and not words. It must seem simple, from the outside looking in--you and I, without anyone else, without distractions. My mind, however, makes it far more complex than what I've known before.

You and I, without anyone else.


End file.
